


Come Again

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s Era Queen (Band), A Night at the Opera Era, Affection, Angry Roger Taylor (Queen), Band Fic, Banter, Best Friends, Bonding, Communication, Crying, Drinking, Exhaustion, Fights, Freddie Mercury is a sweetheart, Friendship, Frustration, Gen, Hugs, I always seem to write Rog angry, Insecure Roger Taylor (Queen), Jealousy, John is a Good Friend, Minor Injuries, Mother Hen Brian May, Music, Musicians, Nicknames, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Paul Prenter Being an Asshole, Platonic Kissing, Platonic Relationships, Protective Brian May, Queen (Band) at Rockfield Studios, References to Depression, Roger Taylor (Queen) Being an Idiot, Sad Brian May, Sassy John, Sleepy Cuddles, Songwriting, Squabbling, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23678752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: "Oh for Christ's sake!" Roger exploded. "We're allowed to have bloody fucking different opinions, Brian!" He breathes heavily, opening and closing his fists. "Your perfect isn't my perfect! And honestly," the drummer seethes, ripping his sunglasses off of his face and hurling them across the recording room, happening to aim at Freddie, who ducked-- "Honestly, is anything going to be perfect for you?!"Brian's written songs. Roger's written songs. So have John and Freddie. It's a dance to figure out which goes where on an album, and if they're good enough to. And each of the band members has his own artistic vision that he is protective of.Sometimes, a trifle too protective.(Or, Brian's perfectionist tendencies threaten to get the better of him in the studio and Roger in particular isn't happy about it.)
Relationships: Brian May & Freddie Mercury, Brian May & Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Brian May, John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Roger Taylor
Comments: 76
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

It's all going down.

We've been in studio for hours, working this track. Not quite to the level Fred put us on for his thing, but it's nearing that. John is restless, shuffling a bit, and I'm starting to get a headache. No one's been smoking, thank god. Dunno that I could take a cloud fogging up the air as I already feel sluggish and slow.

I clutch Red, my dear Old Lady, close. Opening my fingers, I lean her against one hip as I attempt to settle my shoulders, rolling them to try and loosen up. My hair's catching, always in my face, tangled and long, unmanageable. How Rog got so lucky as to have that straight sleek blond hair. I jerk my fingers through my midnight mess, knobbly knuckles catching; of course even my thin digits aren't thin enough to provide relief, push back my hair. Give me space to breathe, to work this track. "Again," I say, looking across to Fred, who nods at me with those deep dark eyes. Fathomless as the realm beyond the stars, mysterious yet warm. I see so much in his eyes, yet also so little. Only what he allows me to see. I ache to learn, to understand, and perhaps with our music, this track is part of that. A way to be close to him, to John and Rog, to everyone. I clear my throat and crook a finger, nodding through the glass at our producer. "Deacy, Rog, let's do this again. Get it perfect. Alright?"

Silence, almost total save for clicks of wood on wood. Roger's drumsticks, I think. I'm sure. John breathes out a hard huff of air, and I look again at Freddie, begging him with my eyes to continue. 

And that's when Roger explodes.

"Oh for Christ's sake! We're running this shite aGAIN? Really? Ohh you don't think it's right, do you?" I catch him glance over at John with a sharp little smile. John returns his glance with one a trifle bitter and my heart falls to my feet.

"It's not right yet," I almost whisper, hands clutching Red tighter, fingers stiff as my arms and shoulders tense. Of course, he's yelling. Looks at John too. He often does those things, pushes back at me, yet somehow I am, my body is not used to it. 

I wonder if I'll ever be.

"Come off it, we're allowed to have bloody fucking different opinions, Brian!" Roger snarls. He brandishes his drumsticks, opening and closing a fist. "Your perfect isn't my perfect! I think this track is perfectly fine. It's kicking, actually. But that doesn't work. Honestly," the drummer rips his sunglasses off of his face and hurling them across the recording room, happening to aim at Freddie, who ducks low-- "--Oof, sorry Fred-- Honestly, Bri, is anything going to be perfect for you?!"

Like I said. It's gone downhill here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"Fred put us on for his thing" = Bohemian Rhapsody was apparently written down as Freddie's thing in studio because at the outset it didn't have a name
> 
> Hello loves!
> 
> I think this might be my first foray into first person on this platform, hopefully it goes well. I've learned that Brian May is a perfectionist in the studio. All the members of Queen were, according to some of the people they worked with. I figure anyone can get temperamental when working in the studio for awhile
> 
> Haven't had Queen inspiration for a bit, until this idea just came out of some frustrations I've been having. As such I'm not sure where precisely this piece is going to go. It's a tough go right now in the world at large. Hope you're all staying safe and well
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2

"Roger, dear--" Fred's off now, coming over, reaching out trying to calm me down. But honestly fuck that. Fuck all of this. Normally I'd be up for a cuddle or a touch, but right now I'm glad I'm stuck behind this ruddy drum set. It's taking every bit of control I have not to launch myself at Brian, bloody wounded-looking bastard standing over there like I've belted him with those enormous eyes of his. No. 

"Don't touch me, Fred," I snap, shoving fingers through my hair. "I'm tired, John's tired--" I look over to him for a nod, which I get. His quiet eyes thank me for speaking up for him. Whenever he doesn't have to speak up in arguments, he's relieved. I jerk my chin in a nod. Glad to do it for my Deaks, we look after each other. "Come on mate, we're all bloody exhausted."

Apparently Brian May needs some doing to remember that we have to be here not solely for the sake of the music, but for each other. 

"We're a team," I add. "In case you forgot, Bri. And if we're not all giving our best, the song'll sound like shite anyway!" I throw up my hands exasperated. Stubborn Bri with his eyes flashing as he sticks out his chin in that steadfast way he's always done since the day I met him when he thinks he's on to something. Ah, hell.

"I remember," his voice has caught. "I just couldn't be a part of it, not a real part, for months, and I..." His voice trails off and I'm shocked, though I really shouldn't be, he's a soft sort, gets misty all the time--good to let out his feelings. But now he's crying quietly, face puckering up as he strives to stop. Sensitive bastard. "...I need this," his voice catches as those hazel eyes plead with me. "I have to do this for you, for us all." 

His gaze flickers round to John, who's squinting in reluctant recognition, and Fred is ready to murmur fond endearments to his Brimi. I can see the look in his eyes. And I, well apparently ball's on the pitch for me to either stick to my guns and break Brian's heart because this single thing means so much to him, for some ruddy reason, or cave and have us stay in this studio for fuck-all hours. 

It's on me to deal with him and this, then. Seems this is the way things end for us always. Freddie argues but they figure things out without shouting most of the time. They get each other, reasoning why something should be brought up or slowed down, the ascension of notes or whatever it is. Musical soulmates, the pair of 'em. Bastards. Am I jealous? Yeah, I've worked with Brian longer than these two, only with Fred he really clicked musically. Fred clicks with Deacy too, and here I am getting shot at for writing about cars and doing my damnedest to add in a little punk rock to our sound. Well, fuck it, this echoing Styx-like song coming from beyond the fucking grave isn't going to get any better.

"This isn't going to get better the longer you listen to playback, you pillock," I speak aloud, striding to the front of my kit as Brian now drifts over to speak in the microphone quietly. "--and this is for you. That's what you want, isn't it? This isn't going to be a piece from the band, it's going to be you sitting here trying to surpass Bohemian Rhapsody." Seeing Brian wince I keep going, satisfied I've got him on the block. "That's it, isn't it? That's the reason! You want to get this grand piece out there with Boh Rhap?" That's rich. "But I can't even get a backup from you on 'I'm in Love with My Car'. No, that's fantastic, Brian," there's a roaring in my ears and my heart is pounding. "Reason you want us to stay here, it's because your thing is _so much better_ isn't it?" I jab a finger in his direction, clenching my teeth, shaking my head. I feel John come up beside me, gentle hand on my arm trying to soothe, but it's too late. I'm seeing red. "But it isn't the best, and for Brian Harold May, it HAS to be the best! Get off your fucking high horse!" I spit, and Brian flinches like I've belted him. More like stabbed him.

Freddie and John are both silent, looking horrified. At the very least shocked. Producer clears his throat over the intercom and asks if we want that playback, and Bri moves shakily, like an old man somehow, curling in on himself. "No, thank you," he says politely. Eyes agonised and fastened on me, Brian continues soft "I'm chasing after something that's apparently unattainable. As Roger sees it." I expect him to toss off that I don't have vision, but that isn't Brian. All he offers is "... maybe you're right," and begins packing up Red, gathering his coat and notepad without looking back. 

Freddie sucks in a breath and John squeezes my arm, and like that my rage is gone and I feel cold dread after the burst of fury as I register what I've probably just up and done. 

Oh, bollocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, I've decided to write Roger too, and hope it works. There is a specific song I'm imagining the boys recording, can you guess it?
> 
> Roger loves Brian, really, he's just frustrated and jealous and tired...and his voice popped right in my head so I hope it sounds good. I don't intend disrespect towards any of these men in the way I try to embody them for the story
> 
> I'm debating on whether I can include John's and Freddie's voices as well, or if I should stick to Bri and Roger. This is uncharted territory for me, so I'm interested to hear what you think
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	3. Chapter 3

Something is off. 

I see it, standing back, fretting my bass on the side of the studio space, in the corner. I'm sure that Freddie sees or senses it too, intuitive as he is. Rog would if he could get out of his own blustery way for long enough. And Bri is just standing there all hurt, like he isn't the biggest of us with the loudest voice wanting things perfect. Always bloody perfect. We want the same, you know, Brian. We want our music to be the best it can be. But he's here in his head nit-picking every little thing even more than usual, and I realise there's something wrong.

How he says he HAS to do this after he's been away, when the reason he was out of things for weeks turning to months was because of the hepatitis and the arm infection. It wasn't his fault, but can't tell that to Brian--he took his inability so personally when we told him he'd have to do his bits over for _Heart Attack_. Still don't think he knows how hard the studio lobbied for me to just bite the bullet, take up the reins of the studio exec's decision and do his bits for him. Since apparently the fact I'd done rhythm guitar before actually stuck in someone's memory, what a surprise. Amazing. But I didn't do it. I think Bri still rankles at that, he had to've heard that they asked me, and it's one more thing, one more nail in the coffin of his self-loathing (except I don't really see that with how certain he is that some things will work and we have to do it this way, his way. That's what I can't help but hear. But, well, you know.)

And then he was standing there looking like he was getting his arse handed to him by Roger, letting all the blows fall. Which come from a good place, I know that. Rog is worried, and frustrated, he sees Brian going so hard and it instantly puts him in mind of Bri hurting himself to go on with an ulcer. I know it does me, and the look in Roger's eyes after Brian blazes right on out of the studio door proves me right. Much as I wish it didn't. 

Freddie looks at us, squeezes Roger's hand and kisses my cheek before he's off after Brian, calling "Do wait up, Brimi darling" and I feel Rog tense next to me. 

I had come over to him to lend a hand if I could--we are the rhythm section, we've got each other's backs--and now all that moves in the stillness of the studio is Roger's heaving chest and the muscles of his arm and jaw. He's clenching a hand so tight, and then his body loosens up all at once as he sinks to a crouch, hand over his face. His drumsticks clatter to the floor.

I sit beside him, moving to crouch as well. "You're alright, Rog," I whisper, mostly to try and keep him calm, but also because the intercom is very likely still live and it's nobody else's business what we're talking about in here right now, far as I'm concerned. We have the right to privacy. I push my hair back behind the ear closest to Roger and wrap my arm around his strong shoulders, muscular from drumming.

Roger shudders, curling into me. Looks like there are tear tracks on his face, but I don't say a thing about 'em and neither does he. 

Instead he smiles at me, voice a trifle wobbly. "With you, yeah, I am. Thanks, Deacy."

I nod, holding on even tighter as his shakes do not abate. I know we're probably going to discuss this some more later, after we get sleep --and probably over a pint-- but for now I do all I can do, which is be here for my friend. My brother in arms, such as he is. I expel a slow, heavy breath of my own and rest my head gently against his.

"Okay, you got it, mate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided to use all the boys' voices, which definitely means I've gone more than slightly mad... ;P Freddie is next! Aaah!
> 
> *I've made mention of Brian's hepatitis, gangrene, and the ulcer he suffered in 1974 before (and during) the recording of Queen's album _Sheer Heart Attack_. John did, in fact, know how to play rhythm guitar and wouldn't do it when told to by the label Queen was under. He was loyal to Brian's particular set of skills and sound, I think
> 
> Hope you enjoy this, comments are appreciated <3


	4. Chapter 4

My heart drops as I follow dear Brian out of the studio space, that enormous drafty barn, which is ghastly for him, I'm sure. He never seems truly comfortable once he gets exhausted, fidgeting and tweaking everything he can. That dear desire for greatness, for perfection, to be loved; I understand and it aches inside me, the understanding. In the darker spaces, which ironically the atmosphere outdoors echoes because it's now almost midnight.

The wind picks up and rustles through trees round Rockfield, like Nature whispers for us to go to sleep. I know sweet Bri won't, not after what Roger said. Dear Roger, he has so much fire, so much untamed emotion that explodes out of him and washes Brian in flame--or has done this time. It's a good thing our sweet Deacy has stayed behind with Liz, he can calm the bitching. Not that I blame, because I want perfection too. Though now I wonder if I'm pushing my dear boys too hard here.

In the darkness, the silver light of the moon is flat, making small shadows, save for the sight of Brian looming large ahead of me, his mass of curls a beacon on the hill where he's stopped and is standing. I want to bury my hands in his soft hair, but the high stiff set of his shoulders and hands stuffed tight against his chest, shoulder blades poking out under his white shirt that almost glows in the moonlight, I know he needs not that sort of soothing touch. He needs words.

I step up beside him and wrap an arm around his waist, thankful that I somehow seem to run warm always, and nudge my head into his side as he shivers. "Darling, unless you intend to catch an ague this is not the way to go about stopping tonight," I smile, because a gentle joke is all I have to offer, and the way he takes it will tell me where my dearest Brian's head is.

He sniffles and shudders, lifting his hand to wipe at his cheeks, though his other arm has automatically curled around me, which I take as a good sign. But then he lets out a whimper. "Roger's right, you know," his voice is the tiniest high croak as he looks down at me, eyes shadowed under the amount of hair that looks even darker, larger with shadows due to the position of the moon. "I'm chasing perfection and won't, can't capture it, clearly. How much hubris can I have?" Brian wipes his eyes as tears fall. He squeezes my body against his tighter. Chokes on his next words. "You're...the work you do is genius, Fred. Boh Rhap, it's truly magnificent." He rubs his nose and bows his head, my sweet insecure Brian, unaware of his extensive talent. Never thinking he's worth enough.

I tremble now, but not with cold as I turn to him and reach up, gripping the sides of his face and holding him still. He freezes there as I stroke tear tracks from his thin cheeks, pale as the moon that shines down. My heart aches. "Oh, Brian, you are so generous." Too much so. "Your work is as spectacular as mine in its way. Why do you think I called us all Queen?" I purse my lips as I look up at him. "Hmm? Because we're fabulous as royalty!" I stroke his cheek, move one hand to grasp him by the shoulder. He chokes again and offers a wobbly smile, but he doesn't quite believe me, I can tell. I sigh. Perhaps he'll believe Roger, once our Blondie gets over his pique and all of us aren't so exhausted. Maybe he will listen to John, too; the three of us lavishing praise. But right now he needs comfort, and I wrap my arms around him, holding tight. Again grateful that my body is naturally warm.

Brian seems to settle, almost collapse in my embrace like a house of cards. He truly must be exhausted, poor darling. Overwrought for certain. I reach up and stroke his hair now, whispering to him as he buries his face in my shoulder. "You'll be alright, my dear," I murmur. "We have so much else to do, such a long way to go-- and there's no one else I'd rather have at my side than you."

Long hands grip me tighter. "Really?"

Shifting to whisper directly into his ear, breath warm on his frigid cheek, I return "Of course. You're my Brimi Hendrix."

I feel his breath against my neck and hear a hitch in it as Brian folds himself around me in our embrace. "Thank you, Fred."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Freddie apparently called Brian his Hendrix, and Brian's nickname of "Brimi" comes from his admiration of Jimi Hendrix as well
> 
> I hope I did justice to Freddie, he's such a warm person (literally and figuratively) or so I imagine from learning about him, that this chapter was a joy to write :)
> 
> What's next? Well, Rog has to deal with/get out of this mess...
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	5. Chapter 5

Dunno how long we end up sitting there, me pissing and moaning, but John's a good sport about it, enough to take me back on to the main house and pour me a drink before bed. He gets one too, and another, and another. The next ones I start pouring for myself and for us both til we end up splayed out on the couch, feet on the table, knocking about ideas.

And taking the piss about a few, apparently.

He's got me on my work now, and he's laughing, just busting a gut right, face crinkled up as he asks "Honestly, Rog, how d'you _not_ recognise your car song as being right weird? It's-- I mean, c'mon!"

"What?" I demand, flinging out my arm, blinking as I sway and the room sways with me. "Jus' because it's not poetic, I dunno, or a bloody opera... It's--"

"Yeah, y' said, I know, it's a metaphor," Deaks slurs, his cheeks flushed by laughter and drink. "But y' didn't say what th' metaphor was OF, an' that's a bit weird, innit?"

"Why?" I sling back the rest of my drink and jab a finger at him. "You wanna talk weird, I c'n talk 'Misfire'--" 

"No," John interjects and I smirk, raising an eyebrow and wobbling closer to him as he's gotten a bit more fuzzy round the edges, a bit more mobile in my view the more I have. 

"Aha! See, well this one's... it's about a bloke, with a car, and he's..." I trail off. Either the lights are dimming or I've drunk too much and am close to passing out. 

"Whoa," John giggles, catching my shoulders and falling into me at the same time. My face presses into his smooth chest where his shirt is open. I hear his heart beating as he briskly pats my outward-facing cheek. "Don't leave me in suspense," he says with a nudge to my head. "Wossit about then? The song?"

"It's a bloke with, who's got a car," I pause, thinking on what they all said: _You've got to be joking, what are you doing with that car?_ and my stomach lurches as I fling my head backwards. The whole world tilts on its axis as my body doesn't stop its momentum, and I end up landing spread-eagled next to the couch on the floor, roaring I dunno how loudly, "AND HE'S FUCKING IN LOVE WITH IT! I'M SO SORRY I DON'T WRITE ABOUT BEST FRIENDS OR LISTENING TO WISE MEN OR--OR POOR BOYS WITH CHEESE!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it wouldn't be a typical John and Roger time without some giggling and drinking ;) I think John would be genuinely curious about Roger's car song, and of course Rog gets a mite sensitive about it...
> 
> I want to put a question to you all, do you think one more chapter (in Brian's POV) is enough, or should there be more? EDIT: I think there have to be at least eight chapters total to include all the boys again, but please feel free to let me know if you think there should be more :)
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	6. Chapter 6

I hold on to Fred I dunno how long, but the parts of me that are pressed against him don't get cold before we finally head for the farmhouse, and the stark light of the silent moon and stars are in immense contrast to the warm light emanating from inside.

And then there is a screech that can only belong to Rog. "He's yelling again," I glance at Freddie, and for some reason we both keep on when every nerve in my body is screaming at me to turn back and look at the stars a while longer. They're orderly and distant, so antithetical to bright, burning, chaotic Roger Taylor. But stars do fall, and Rog has as well I see as I push open and hold the door for Fred, seeing a head of tufty blond hair spread on the floor, his body with it, legs haphazardly draped across the couch. Wide green-grey eyes catch mine where their owner sits, across from Roger.

"What happened, John?!" I sputter.

He winces at my voice, it's sharp and loud, still, I suppose, though I'm out of the studio. "Rog just fell. Backwards. Off the couch."

Freddie sucks in a breath, eyes huge, and John is wobbling up to help Roger now, which helps me put the pieces together. "They're drunk," I murmur to Freddie. Then louder, "You've been drinking, both of you."

John shoots me a look as if to say of course they have, and I snap, running over to kneel next to Rog, who hasn't made a move to stand up yet. "Don't touch him." I can't think about sounding cruel, being mean. All I can think is if Roger hit his head, what that could do. Luckily it's not a tall couch, and he hit a slatted wooden floor, not a stone one. That all said, I also know that a bump on the head is better than no bump, because if there's none the swelling is inside, which means concussion. I helped Roger study for a few biology tests at Uni. "Can you find a blanket, Fred?"

"Certainly, darling," Freddie has gone to John, with a whispered word and a caress of his cheek he's gotten Deaks to stop looking like a scolded puppy. I wish I could do that; Fred's gentleness seems so easy. But instead I snap like I just did, and feel my face heating up as John doesn't quite meet my eyes. Great. I kneel next to Roger and put a hand on his shoulder, then carefully curl the other underneath his head. 

"Oi, Rog," I whisper. My heart is in my throat as I pray that he's not passed out and he's got a lump on his head. "Roger, it's Brian." Freddie hands me the blanket that he'd rolled up, good one Freddie--and I gently place it underneath Roger's neck, resting him on it. "Lie still a minute. Think you hit your head."

Those light blue eyes flutter open as "Oh, ya think?" His voice is a slurring snarl. I smell the alcohol on his breath. "Really, Brian? Wow, you're brilliant." His jaw jumps as he looks away from me. "I' this, jus' like everything else y' do...," I know he's been drinking, and his head probably smarts, but those words are still a blow that hits my heart and seems to stop my lungs. I clear my throat and press his shoulder, rising a little wobbly, blinking hard. 

I know he isn't meant to move too much without an actual medical assessment and he's made it amply clear what sort of mood he's in, but I can't help it. "Right, well, I'm getting you to bed," I say, and reach back down, cradling his head and neck on the rolled blanket in one arm, pulling his body against my chest, and I stand and barely stumble before striding down the hall and up to his room, biting my lower lip almost til it bleeds and laying him out on his bed. Don't know if John or Freddie followed me, but "There," I'm breathing hard. "There you are in your perfect bed with your perfect bandmate who is barely strong enough to carry you upstairs." I swallow the hot sensation of coming tears that rise in my throat and prickle at my eyes as I choke out a whisper "Sweet dreams, Rogie."

I think I hear him mutter something in reply as I linger by the door, but whatever it is the words aren't articulate enough for me to make them out. I stand and decide to talk with him in the morning. 

After I stay with him for the remainder of the night to take care of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brian is fretting and he's probably not going to let Rog fall sleep just yet, have to check his eyes for dilation and other factors to see if he has a concussion. Bri doesn't know as much as Roger himself would, unfortunately, but he's going to keep an eye out anyway.
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	7. Chapter 7

John's shoulders jerk as he looks after Brian carrying Roger upstairs, and I'm across the space and rubbing my hand up and down his back between his shoulder blades almost before thinking. He sways into me, my Deacy dear, so sweet and cuddly. He always seems so young particularly in moments like this when needing physical comfort, which I can tell he does. I know he aches when hearing some of the sharpness sweet Brimi expresses out of worry and concern. Unintentional--but dearest John is a sensitive soul, as much as Bri is, really. John just builds barriers to block his sensitivity, lock it up inside, whilst Brian shows his to all the world. 

I keep rubbing John's back and murmur "Let's clean this up and get you to bed, my darling, hmm?" He seems to choke a bit on something to say, Adams apple bobbing. "Here, let me take those glasses, darling." I step around him and stroke his cheek as he gathers the glasses he and Roger drank from, which I carry to the sink, and then briskly close up the decanter lid and shoo John to the loo and then downstairs. He stops at the head of the staircase and looks up at me with soulful eyes, and so I promise to come down to him after checking on Roger and seeing what's become of Brian. He bites his lip and nods.

"Okay, Freddie," he says, and swallowing again, ducking his face so that long soft hair obscures part, "Thanks," he croaks out. And then with his ever-dry humour "As usual I don't know what to say, so I'll just dry up."

I chuckle a little. Sweet Deacy. What a gem. "I'll be back down to talk as much or little as you like," I promise him, and take him by the hand, kissing the back of it before letting go and bounding up the main stairs.

I quiet my steps as I reach the landing, tiptoeing over to Roger's room after poking my head in to check on Brian, who isn't in his bed. Of course not. I first spy Roger's towhead with hair missed and mouth open snoring, and behind him, a thin pale arm wrapped round his chest, is Brian. His onyx curls are a tangled halo behind Roger, and as I watch silently he lifts his head and shifts our dear drummer a little, long fingers probing the back of his head before he drops down with a sigh, I think of relief. I don't intend to enter and thus intrude, but knock my leg against the doorframe and Brimi lifts his head again, tense shoulders relaxing as he recognises me. 

"Hullo Fred," he mouths, and then gesturing to snoring Roger "he's out like a light. Been monitoring his head, got him to drink a bit of water before he fell asleep. Think his head will be alright, I've felt a little lump last times I've checked it." His breath is shuddery as it whooshes out and his hazel eyes are piteous. "I feel awful for... I, for snapping at John. How is he doing?"

"A little worse for wear, darling, like our Rog, but he'll be right as rain again by the morning. I'm going to stay with him, unless you two need me?" 

Brian shifts and gently strokes hair out of Roger's sleeping face. "It's alright Fred, I think I can manage."

I beam at him, blowing a kiss. That's my determined Brimi. "I'll let John know how Roger's doing, and that you're sorry," looking at this dear man warmly after moving to stroke Roger's cheek and kiss the top of his head, I add, "He just wants to impress you, you know. And work might go easier..." I cock my head pointedly "If he hears --from you-- how you feel about him, Brian." Stopping at the door and looking back I add "Think about it, love. You two are quite the pair."

I think I've left him speechless as I blow another kiss and bid goodnight. Quite a feat if I may say. I head down the hall, grabbing up several pillows from my enormous drafty room. My dear little bass boy needs me tonight, and I cannot bear to disappoint him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freddie is the sweetest most intuitive man, I think, and he sees how similar Brian and John are in some ways, yet so vastly different that even with such close bonds they butt heads. I also think John would want to impress Brian, and Bri wouldn't quite know how to talk to John, but they care about each other very much.
> 
> I think there needs to be at least a trio of chapters left so we can have a conversation between Bri and Rog. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think, comments are greatly appreciated <3


	8. Chapter 8

I stare after Freddie as he heads upstairs, and have to move immediately to the little bathroom in order to brush my teeth and hair and, well, not to feel cold and bereft. Of course I would, I'm silly shy little John, I shake my head at myself, the sudden movement making me groan as I'm still very much intoxicated, and lucky the toilet bowl is near as I quietly bend over it. 

Do feel a bit better after, thank God, and brush my teeth extra-well before shucking off my trousers and vest. There's no loo downstairs where my bedroom is, and it really is the smallest, far side taken nearly entirely by the bed. At least I have a window, or it might feel stifling. But, after I splash water on my face and shiver as cold droplets dribble down my neck to soak the collar of my t-shirt, I think about how much room the others have for themselves, but also for each other. I...well I'm lucky that Freddie's decided to come stay with me tonight, is all.

I sharply turn off the water and blot my face with a towel. Ridiculous not to have gotten over feeling new yet. Not even new, really, but not as close. My stomach lurches at the thought of Fred being so sweet because he is that way to everybody, and then I swallow hard, because Roger isn't. Roger will tell off a bloke like it's nothing for being what he considers a wanker or a prat. I actually heard him laying into Paul our first day after he was the one to give me this tiny room. Not that I mind it, really, but apparently Roger did. 

_"Oi, Prenter, what're you trying to pull here, eh? Deaks is part of the band as well, you know! Or maybe you haven't realised because you're so bloody thick!"_ I dunno how Paul responded, didn't hear his softer voice, only Roger's roaring tones through the ceiling, which made my chest feel warm then and have the power to soothe me now as I remember them. Good ol' Rog. I really hope he's feeling all right now. Of course he is-- Brian is taking care of him.

Brian...my bare feet are cramping as I cross the hall floor and start down the stairs to my little room, hand shaking as I turn on the light and jump into bed, as despite the room in general not being as cold, the floor is, 'specially on bare feet. I put Roger's sunglasses on my tiny night table, as he hadn't picked them up when we left the studio. I meant to give 'em back before, but there was a bit of a hubbub. That leaves tomorrow. I roll myself up in my blankets and wait for Fred, trying not to dwell on what Brian said, everything he's said. He's a perfectionist, I know that. And a worrier. He wants things to be right. I just, I wish--

My thoughts cut off as down the stairs bounds Freddie, throwing pillows to me "for a fabulous slumber party, Deacy darling!" And he throws himself into the bed, wrapping his arms around me and kissing me even more than usual, as if he senses my mood. I open my arms to him as he nuzzles close and whispers "We're all alright, and Brian is sorry he snapped at you, I hope you know." My heart bumps as I wonder how Freddie knew the gist of what I was thinking ... there must've been something in my face. Everyone tells me I'm incredibly expressive. I can't do a thing about it except not to speak when there's no need, so I'm silent when there's nothing I care to say. 

Now, I feel as though there's something I should say, but I can't quite do it. I try, though. Freddie loves me, he watches and I hope can understand. "Freddie, I..." I want so badly to know that I'm accepted, that Brian likes me, or at least respects my work, as I know you and Roger do. I want to say all that, but the words remain stuck in my throat, because pathetic of course, the youngest fellow moaning about his place. So why say anything at all? I smile at him, or do my best, though, because he likes to talk. "I'm, well I'm a bit tired." I bite my lip, worried he'll be disappointed by that, he and Roger often stay up for hours giggling about things.

But Freddie is instantly up and turning off the light for me. "Of course you are, darling, you worked your arse off, today and every day." He tucks the rest of the blankets around me and snuggles up against my back, wrapping one arm around my waist and pulling me to him. "I'm so proud," he murmurs in my ear, and though his breath and body are both comfortably warm, it is the words that help me loosen my shoulders and relax.

"Okay, well. Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear sweet John is a little insecure in his own way, I think. But Freddie and Roger have his back, and Brian loves him too, really he just doesn't rightly know how to express himself with John.
> 
> Also, excuse my language, but Paul Prenter can fuck right off
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	9. Chapter 9

If I was close to falling asleep before, I wouldn't be after Fred makes his recommendation. He's so aware, perceptive. About all of us, but especially John, I think. Yet Roger seems to be able to interact with John at least as easily as does Freddie, and he's such a different personality. Thus it's me, I'm the problem in the interaction. I am the one who irked Roger enough to make him blow his top. Though that is more typical of Roger, I really stepped across the line. Saw the expression on Roy's face as I went out of the booth, unable to face my bandmates or myself. I already know my shortcomings, of course this won't be perfect, because I'm so far from perfection. Whereas Freddie is so observant and perceptive and kind, doing so much for others, meanwhile I--

Roger starts to snort and then thrash in his sleep, and I'm up and pulling his hair back. Those cornflower eyes pop open and he snaps "Move," at me. 

My chest clenches. Can't even help him now. "What? Rog," I say, but

" _Move!_ " he shoves me and lunges out of bed onto his knees, grabbing the bin by the door and heaving into it. He spits and groans as I shift my legs and make to stand, all lanky limbs and nothing that can-- "Shut the fuck up, Brian," he gasps, lifting his hand to me. "Just, stop thinking. You're so bloody loudly self-deprecating and you just need to fucking stop. No, you aren't perfect," he turns to face me, setting the bin down to surely dump later. "You're breathing madly over here, sure we won't get your bloody song done right --well it's already brilliant, you stubborn bastard! The images alone," Rog waves a hand, wincing a little as he shakes his head in connection to his words. 

He keeps talking as I move across the bed to help him. "Sit your stubborn arse down, I'm not finished. Yes, you're already brilliant, but you won't do anything good if you can't just stop, take a break, and fucking SLEEP." He pushes his palm against the floor and slowly stands, slightly wobbling. "Christ--" he half lunges, half falls into my arms where I'm sitting up in his bed, and that soft bright hair tickles my neck as he smacks his hand into my chest and tells me to lie back down and close my eyes "Or I'll fucking make you." And then as I shift myself backwards to lie down, he wraps his strong arms around me and mutters "One of these days, Bri, I'm going to get you to believe, we're all going to get you to believe good things about yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brian is such a sweet insecure man, but Roger isn't going to let him wallow if he can help it. And obviously his head doesn't hurt bad enough to stop him from shouting ;P
> 
> I think I can wrap this up in a chapter, but please let me know if you'd like to read more. 
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	10. Chapter 10

I spend the rest of the bloody night dealing with my headache raging at me, pounding like my taps on drums, but I bury myself in Brian's embrace to deal with it. He's always cold and that feels good against my face and neck. I think I end up comforting him too, at least physically; the daft giant still doesn't admit he's gotten close to perfection as he can by even coming UP with this song, but he does begin drifting off when I ask him about how he came up with it, and to help him along begin stroking his tangled hair back off his forehead.

He had a dream, he tells me, thinks it was in hospital after he got hepatitis and had surgery for gangrene. I gulp a little, tensing as I recall how fucking serious that all was, how honestly terrifying. I thought I was going to lose my best friend, and as he describes a little of his dream, the images in this song take on new potency and immediacy. He waves one arm about whilst describing, and I see that moony look in his eyes that he typically gets when talking about Space. I smile to myself as he continues explaining til his words are lost in a yawn, and we both begin to drift off to sleep. Last thing I intend to say is "That's brilliant, Bri," and I hope he fucking believes me. No wonder he wants this perfect, it means a lot to him. "We gotta get it right since we got y' back, yeah?"

Can't be quite sure as I've almost completely conked out, but I think he kisses my head before he whispers "Appreciate your understanding, Rog. Thank you."

I nuzzle down against his chest and breathe "...we still need s'm ruddy rest, though."

He chuckles and I hear him yawning again, which makes me yawn enough my jaw cracks. "Right, true," he whispers.

"Which means go th' fuck t' sleep, Brian."

"Got it, I am..." His voice is trailing off, breaths evening. "You're like a blanket, Rogie."

I nearly snort, my eyes closed and words barely coherent. "So'm heavy? Fuck off" and then before he can reply: "Kidding, Bri," I say so he doesn't get all worried that he offended me. I need to give him some pointers about that thought process with John--I heard what Bri said earlier tonight, wasn't completely out of it. And I want to help them both. We're going to be working together a while. A long while if Freddie in particular has anything to say about it, and I won't fucking complain. We're a family.

And families figure out their shite together. I know we bloody will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I read that Brian did, in fact, write 'The Prophet's Song' after/based it on a dream he had after surgery for his gangrenous arm injury in 1974. I can personally attest to the fact that anaesthesia and other medication can cause strange thoughts and dreams to occur
> 
> I think this is at an end, dear readers, unless anyone thinks there need be an epilogue. I do want Bri and John to talk, but am not sure first person works for that particular conversation. What do you think? EDIT: there will be one more chapter, written in 3rd person this time, to wrap this story up. Thanks so much for reading :)
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in 3rd person POV

Even with his slight hangover, John is the first awake. Well, at least of he and Freddie; carefully extricating his body from Freddie's arms, the youngest band member gently tucks a pillow into his friend's arms to allow for them to remain in the same space, curled as they'd been around his torso for the majority of the night. He holds still as Freddie makes a squeaking sound and nuzzles himself into the pillow, snores continuing and reverberating around the tiny bedroom. 

John tugs on a pair of thick woollen socks and boots, leaving naught else but undershorts and his t-shirt on, because it's early enough he figures he can run upstairs, put the coffeepot on, check for the newspaper out front, and head back down either to sit in his chair or hop back in bed with Fred.

Doesn't expect anyone else to be up, so when he tiptoes upstairs and slowly opens his door to the hall, heading out along the corridor to pass by the main staircase and crashes full-bore into a thin tall personage John nearly shrieks. All he musters is a slight yelp as a pair of long hands grasp his upper arms to help him remain upright. Looking down into his face, lengthy onyx hair a wild curling tangle, is Brian. He blinks and presses his lips together before uttering "Morning, John."

Brian had awoken to Roger's groan, fists pressing into his eye sockets and voice muffled by his muscular arms, growling "Damn it, Bri, why the fuck is the sun so ruddy bright?!" 

He had got up and found a cloth to dunk in icy water and placed it across Roger's aching forehead before promising to find him something to eat "Or drink, more like. Water is a good idea," and of course Roger had scoffed but then grudgingly accepted 

"You're so fucking stubborn, Brian" but couldn't stop his mate from coming down and looking for something to help him.

"Even aspirin," Brian now says, and John shakes his head with a little cluck.

"Of course you aren't going to let him fend for himself, not even if he's fine doing it," the bassist mutters, ducking his head and allowing his dark hair to cover his face as he steps back from Brian with a tiny sardonic smile. Shaking both his hair and his expression away he shuffles on towards the kitchen. "What a surprise," adding the latter phrase over his shoulder drily. Brian blinks, shaking his head a bit, curls settling on top of his slim shoulders. He hunches them up high, stuffing both fists into the pockets of the trousers he'd pulled on before coming downstairs, wanting to appear at least somewhat presentable; no one wants to see his bare legs, pale as the moon and just as pockmarked he's sure. John is so much more cavalier, though quiet. 

Brian clears his throat and follows his bandmate across the creaky farmhouse floor into the kitchen. His fingers flutter across his face and then onto the countertop that he clutches before deciding to ask "What d'you mean by that, John?" Voice quiet, measured. Even. He knows he has a tendency to snap in the studio, and John appears to take that more to heart than Fred. Certainly than Roger does, as he and Freddie typically have similar notes, Brian reasons. But he sees the stiffness, the ducking away that Deacon does, and it twinges. Brian doesn't want to upset John's efforts, nor does he mean to upset the band's balance, though he very likely has done with his intensity over his new song. Oh, dear... Brian feels his heart thrumming on his ears as John moves quietly around the kitchen, taking down a coffee filter for the pot and pouring beans as well as water in. 

"...Well you've always got it figured out, haven't you?" John's tone of voice is flat and his eyes are intense. Brian has a tough time correlating that dry, even voice with the expressiveness in the bassist's face; and the pealing bursts of laughter he exhibits during practically every chat he has with Roger don't make things any easier. John breathes heavily through his nose and continues "...got an answer for everything in studio, so I don't see how you wouldn't here too, yeah?"

The flatness, not to mention the rising eyebrow and one fist propped on his hip that John throws Brian's way with his voice, makes the guitarist freeze. His face grows cold and his heartbeat stutters. "I-- you-- do you really think I have an answer for everything?" Brian wets his lips and nearly whispers.

John's head tilts a little, soft brown hair falling away from his face and shoulder on one side. His eyes have locked on Brian's. "Don't you?"

Brian clenches his fists and shakes his head violently. "I--god, John, no. I just have a way I hear the songs in my head, and it's sometimes so loud, I can't do anything but to get it out to the world," he lifts his hands, opening the fingers as he gestures, breathing hard. "I... I worry that the work, it won't be right. But we've got to get this album right, Deaks. We _have_ to. For ourselves, for the music, for what all we've got in debt to Trident...," Raking one hand through his frizzy hair, which makes it stand up and tangle more, Brian continues "I'm struggling, I-- I think I'm cracking, Deacy, and I honestly didn't realise until last night, with what Roger said." A gulp, with his whole body shivering now, Brian's voice is choked. "And I'm sorry for the way I've talked to you, I know I've said some things that were awful, to you, and to... I'm sure to Rog and Freddie as well. And,"

"And we're all under the gun here, darling," Freddie's rich voice emanates from the door of the kitchen behind Brian. "It's quite apropos that I wrote a lyric about killing a man, hmm?"

Brian chokes on a laugh as "For fuck's sake, Brian, smile," Roger's irascible tone floats over from where Freddie's has come. "I asked for somethin' to help MY headache, not to give you one as well, mate."

Bri turns and trails his bleary eyes around, but he locks his gaze initially on John. John, who seems to be pondering the other man's words intently, and then he looks at Brian and nods. Just the slightest change of expression, and then he reaches out and presses the guitarist's closer hand, drawing himself in to Brian's chest as Bri squeezes his hand back and pulls the bassist close with a questioning air, nonverbally inquiring if it's okay for them to hug. 

"Oh, bollocks to that hesitating, bring it in!" Says Roger, and Brian feels Freddie move, lunging into him as the drummer does too, and all their arms wrap around each other. The four bandmates stand together, nestled against one another, John's body pressed to Brian's chest, Freddie's face in his neck, Roger's arms around them all. 

And as the sun rises higher beyond the window and birds cluck and call ("Ruddy chickens," Roger hisses with a shudder as Freddie laughs) the coffee machine wafts a sound and scent of energy through the kitchen. With the warmth of their affection, the four members of Queen relax, a bit, and take stock of what they're doing, what they have got. 

Though they have yet to get to work upon the rest of their songs, this feeling right now, Brian thinks as John looks up at him, Roger flicks his tongue wickedly and Freddie presses a kiss to each of their cheeks; this, in fact, is as Rog would say, pretty damn well close to perfect.

And now, here and now, that is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Queen for their affection and their music
> 
> Thanks to all of you for reading, I hope you have enjoyed this piece.
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


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